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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29450655">BUSH POEM - 1982 Drought. Landscapes..</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrannieHopkirk/pseuds/FrannieHopkirk'>FrannieHopkirk</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Poems of Love and Hate [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Bell Jar - Sylvia Plath</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Multi</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-15 18:47:20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>246</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29450655</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/FrannieHopkirk/pseuds/FrannieHopkirk</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Life on the land - Australian farming life.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>Poems of Love and Hate [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/2163186</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>BUSH POEM - 1982 Drought. Landscapes..</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>BUSH POEM.   1982 Drought.  Writing Landscapes.</p><p> </p><p>The afternoon quivered and turned over</p><p>A blowie stirred, hitting against hot glass.</p><p>A light wind lifted the skirts of the willow,</p><p>Then all was still again.</p><p> </p><p>Down in the shed – loud buzz and whine</p><p>Of shears, metallic hum and clang of the press,</p><p>Heavy thump of bales.  Snap of a gate, swish of</p><p>A broom, low muttering of sheep.  Hot smell</p><p>Of men working, soft falling wool, moon-beams</p><p>Of dust, cursory conversation at smoko,</p><p>The satisfied burning of tobacco.</p><p> </p><p>Dark dust swirling in the yards, curses and the</p><p>Keen persistent barking of dogs.  Newly white</p><p>Sheep sorted, stamped, posted back to their paddocks</p><p>Moving like maggots across the carcass of a hill.</p><p>Bleached and blonde the velvet fields await</p><p>The frogged and cricketed evening.</p><p> </p><p>Our Ark floats on a sea of drought and doubt.</p><p>Dogs sleep, silence is absolute.  I sit in the ruin</p><p>Of a meal, a large fire busies itself beside the</p><p>Strange concentrated passivity of a chess game.</p><p>Outside a late bird cawks, a small plane hurries home,</p><p> </p><p>The sheep cease their ceaseless nibbling at nothing.</p><p>The moon is full is a cloudless, forbiddingly optimistic</p><p>Sky.  Another fine day menaces, day after day after day,</p><p>Of drought. I walk to the top of Bald Hill, watch unnoticed</p><p>The still -photograph of the chess game.  Candles,</p><p>Flickering fire, shadows, the bent heads, flowers</p><p> among dishes and glasses.  My home floats gently</p><p>on into the night.  Check mate.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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